Want / Need / Wear / Read -- A plain and simple gifting mantra.

A warm welcome to my jan: plain and simple devotees as well as to those who may have stumbled upon my blog by accident. There are no coincidences. The Great and Powerful World Wide Web led you here for a reason. Come in. Sit down. Get cozy.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

As we count down the days, I hope you will make an effort to escape the short-fused shopping crowds, stir up a batch of hot cocoa, surround yourself with your favorite people, fire up the classic Charlie Brown Christmas DVD, bask in the glow of the tree, and ponder the true reason for the season.

I beg of you.

Please.

Take a lesson from me.

You see, somewhere around thirty years ago, I unwittingly sold my soul to Martha Stewart, giving her the power to spoil for me what should be the hap, hap, happiest season of all.

The domestic maven brainwashed me [and zillions of others] into believing I wasn't worthy of the homemaker slash wife slash mommy title without attempting every idea nestled between the covers of her monthly magazine. I dutifully displayed Entertaining on my hand stenciled checkerboard coffee table, redecorated two homes entirely around her line of trademarked paint colors, slumbered between her highest quality thread counts and adopted her cookbook as my brunch building blueprint.

Convinced that the familiar mish mash of brightly colored and curly cued piles were passé, one December found me distributing dozens of brown paper packages tied up with strings. A year later our gifts were transformed within black and white newspaper print and red ribbons.

Every. Single. One.

And they did look kinda, sorta cool and classy and they no doubt garnered oodles of oohs, aahs, and refrains of, "Ohmygoodness! Why, that's just too gosh darn pretty to open!"

But there was a price to be paid.

I trimmed soap opera caliber Dickinsonian trees. I presented fabric lined baskets of home preserved jellies, jams and miniature bread loaves. I jute-tied handcrafted oatmeal soap bars within hand loomed cotton wash cloths, stitched up pair after pair of novelty-printed boxers, fleece pajama bottoms and sweat suits. My nieces received adorable calico dresses, complete with coordinating collars, pinafores and petticoats. I cross-stitched samplers and monogrammed towels for friends, knitted slews of scarves for coworkers, appliqued my son's primitive artwork onto pillows for his grandparents and painted, glazed and kiln-prepped Old World Saint Nicholas figurines every Tuesday night.

I decorated dozens [upon dozens, upon dozens, upon dozens] of sugar cutouts and doily lined plates of carefully hand dipped chocolates. I hosted old-fashioned cookie exchanges, ladling mulled cider and hot vanilla from crocks and sending each of my guests home sporting their very own parting gift of a handmade holiday apron. I hand labeled mason jars of chai tea and "microbrewed" Irish Cream liqueur, sealing the pretty recycled bottles with corks and colored wax. I bought a booth at our hospital's annual Holiday Bazaar, handing over hundreds of microwavable field corn-filled heating pads.

I strung miles of dually purposed garlands of popcorn, cranberries and dental floss, allowing our tree to service hungry birds as it patiently awaited curbside collection. I sent scores of greeting cards, tucking cheerfully hand-written notes and customary school photographs within envelopes neatly addressed in calligraphical script.

And a partridge in a pear tree.

Virtually every recipient on my list could expect something, "Created especially for you by Janet H*****," as my personalized sew-in labels would attest. These labors of love were more often than not accomplished in the wee hours of the morning, after my very, very busy toddler had finally konked out and the capital budget proposal for each of my departments was neatly filed in my briefcase for the next-day's presentation to the board of directors.

Yep.

 I guzzled that mauve-shaded, It's a Good Thing, kool-aid by the gilded vintage bucketful.

My Sweet Lord!

That version of me doesn't sound very free-spirited or fun-loving, does it???

Nope.

That weary lady was more accurately described as a one hundred and ten pound, soaking wet, nervous wreck.

And somebody forgot to present her with her hard-earned trophy.

Now ...

My agenda for taking you along on that ridiculous, albeit non-fictional, journey down memory lane was never intended to promote Martha's teachings, techniques or torture. Nor was it an opportunity to brag or an attempt to make you feel inadequate.

Au contraire!

I told you that story to tell you this story:

The litany of  martyrdom represented above only served to stress me to the point of utter exhaustion, underlying resentment and sheer dread as each holiday season approached, an emotion exponentially compounded with each passing year. The real meaning of Christmas for me became lost amid the chaos commencing the day after Thanksgiving and only ending with the homily delivered at Christmas Eve midnight Mass.

Sadly, Martha's eager prodigy evolved into a grumbling, Grinch-esque woman with the inability to enter a department store without real threat of hurling should Andy Williams' These Are a Few of My Favorite Things stream overhead. Despite years of debriefing, I remain to this day absolutely incapable of sitting in front of The Hallmark Channel and the only holiday inspired music you will hear playing inside my home is the classic Elvis Christmas Album. Just because he's Elvis.

And I go through the motions.

And I look forward to the twenty-sixth of December.

Every. Single. Year.

I elected to take full advantage of this arena to issue an important and timely warning to my blog followers, the young moms and budding homemakers especially:

PLEASE DO NOT TRY THIS AT [your] HOME!

Trust me when I assure you your recipients will soon forget those picture perfect stacks of white butcher paper covered boxes and precise teal ribbons.

Heed the free advice of an older and wiser white haired former SuperSingleMom:  Slow down, scale back, simplify and savor the season.

If you are the type [like me] who requires a written guideline, I encourage you to follow this Pinterest popularized gift giving edict, reminiscent of a much less materialistic era.

Give each of your children four items:

Something they Want; Something they Need;  Something to Wear; Something to Read.

My ten-year-old great-nephew accepted his mom's threats to adopt that sensible mantra at face value --  and the dude was actually pretty cool with the concept.

If only someone had shared that philosophy with me about three decades earlier.

You. Are. Welcome.

So, I encourage you to create priceless memories with your family and friends. Give your children the gift of lighthearted laughter. Sing off-key carols while molding molasses popcorn balls or placing the perfectly imperfect finishing touches on the gingerbread house you created.  

Together.

As a family.

That's the image I carry in my heart of my own childhood.

And I would give anything at all for that to be the way my son remembers his.

But no matter how hard you try, you will never get those years back.

Plain. And. Simple.

Sooooooo  ...

This Friday evening will mark a brand new tradition at my house, as I play hostess with the mostest to my two oldest greats, Caleb and Shane, for a stress free, fun filled, no rules, anything goes:

 Great Aunt Jan's First Annual Christmas Shopping Slash Sleepover Extravaganza!!!

And we shall weave our way through the toy aisles of Walmart, singing nonsensical Alvin and the Chipmunks songs. We shall cruise in the clown car with the express purpose of appreciating the sights and the sounds of our town's most ambitious outdoor decorators. We shall snack on everything from raw cookie dough to gobs of frosting to festively shaped pancakes. We shall watch movies and play BINGO all night long and sleep all day, if that's what we feel like doing. Just because we can.

And I absolutely and positively cannot wait!!!

I wonder if the boys will notice the absence of a traditional Christmas tree in my new little home. The three giant individually themed trees I showcased in my old Victorian have become further and further downsized to the tiny, shiny, jingly, silvery tabletop trio I unearthed on a recent thrifting expedition with two of my most favorite ladies.

I wish each of my blog followers a Blessed Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyful Kwaanza --  or whatever holiday it is that you happen to observe.

And if you choose not to celebrate any of these, I wish you peaceandlove.

Plain. And. Simple.

  

Full disclosure: We all are a little broken.

Welcome to my jan:plainandsimple blog. Today's topic has a more serious tone than my last couple of posts. But my message is one I hope you will find interesting, meaningful and helpful.

Soooo, here we go ...

I'm not exactly sure how to begin today's entry. I have typed a few words, changed my mind, backspaced, retyped, erased, and started over.

Literally. Dozens. Of. Times.

When I started my foray into the world of blogging and created the ABOUT ME section, I promised to share whatever happens to be going on in the corners of my mind or world on any given day. My first two entries seemed to flow effortlessly and spontaneously out of my mind, through the ends of my fingertips, to the keyboard, onto the page, and into cyberspace. I was on a roll, or so I thought. I had no way of knowing at the time that only a few days later my creativity would be nearly impossible to tap into. As hard as I tried, my well of positive energy appeared to be dry.

So I took a blogging break.

I was committed to keeping my posts positive, upbeat, humorous and entertaining. After all, who in their right mind would want to visit a blog that was dark, depressing and deep. Anyone interested in wallowing in sadness, badness or negativity need only tune into any of the 24-hour news stations. I had no desire to perpetuate that vibe.

But truth is truth and facts are facts and if I want to be taken seriously as a blogger, I feel that I owe my followers the courtesy of pure honesty and full disclosure. I only wish I wasn't writing this entry quite so early in my blogging journey. I hope it will not turn any of you away or alter your opinion of me.

But here goes ...

I happen to be one of the 5.7 million Americans who suffer from bipolar disorder. I have never hidden or been ashamed of that fact. On the other hand, I certainly don't meet somebody for the first time, walk up to them, shake their hand and say, Hi, I'm Jan and I have a mental illness. That would just be weird.

It is no coincidence that I entered the field of mental health. As is the case with many who share my profession, my career appeared to me as more of a calling than a choice. I was diagnosed at the age of 40, following a severe depressive episode requiring hospitalization. I won't bore you with details of the circumstances that precipitated my first admission. I dedicated many years to learning how to chalk that phase of my life up to experience, taking away only the pieces I believed I could benefit from to hopefully avoid making the same mistakes and continue moving forward.

In an effort to better understand the cards I had been dealt, I took my first college psychology course. Eight years and many credits later, I literally danced across the Lackawanna College Auditorium stage waving my hard-earned degree in the air and blowing kisses to my family and friends.

I made a commitment to paying it forward and giving back to those who might benefit from my personal experience and education. I joined the very team of professionals who had saved my life and encouraged me to set new goals and emerge on the other side -- happier, healthier, stronger, and with an empathic approach to helping others. I have worked in the role of psychiatric technician and behavioral health assessment specialist [which is really just a fancy term for crisis evaluator] for the past nine years.

And I can honestly say I love my job [most nights] and the rewarding fulfillment I derive from quite possibly making a therapeutic difference in the lives of others.

I pride myself on being high functioning --  holding down a full time(+) job, meeting family commitments and homeownership responsibilities, nurturing many valued friendships and juggling a myriad of hobbies and outside interests. I strive for excellence in nearly everything I set out to do.

So, what's the problem?

Every now and then -- despite my best efforts, despite my compliance with medications, physician appointments and healthy sleep hygiene, despite possessing knowledge and education in the field of mental health, despite being fully capable of facilitating group therapy sessions or counseling others on everything from developing healthy coping skills to goal setting to assertiveness to self-love to relaxation techniques to developing a strong support system -- my organic mental illness smacks me HARD right in the face.

And that's exactly what happened to me last week. I got smacked.

Pretty. Darn. Hard.

Not as hard as I have in the past, thank God, but hard enough to hear my bipolar disorder screaming, Hey, Miss Smarty Pants, you aren't Superwoman. You can't be everything to everyone and not expect to have a price to pay. I didn't see it coming, nor can I pin down exactly what triggered this episode.

So I tried to disappear.

Yep!

Despite all of my training, education and experience, the only thing I could think of doing was hiding my car in the garage, locking my doors, turning off the lights and isolating to my bed until the darkness passed. I unplugged from Facebook, from my brand new blog, from my family, from my friends, from work, from the world. Counterproductive, much, Jan ???

I began feeling defective, weak, damaged, pitiful and  insecure. I felt worthless, hopeless and helpless -- those three adjectives that flash like neon lights on a crisis evaluator's radar screen. Make no mistake, I never wanted to die. I just wanted the energetic, happy, perky old Jan back -- the one who laughs way too loud and way too long at the most inappropriate times.

I felt ridiculous and embarrassed for feeling so low when my life is actually relatively pretty darn good. I felt guilty and self-indulgent, knowing that so many others, both within and without my circle, are facing more dire and serious illnesses, hardships, losses and life circumstances.

Fortunately, my family, my friends, my coworkers, my healthcare providers and my hungry cats made it very difficult [impossible, actually] for me to disappear for long. I am one of the luckiest people on earth. I realize this! With a tweak of my meds, some rest, my amazing support system and my faith, I actually woke up this morning and thought, Here comes the sun. And I say, it's alright. Now, admittedly, that may have had a little something to do with the fact that I was dreaming about The Quiet Beatle, but, hey -- whatever gets you through the night.

So, what is the moral of this blog entry???

Hmmmm ...

Well, if there is one take-away, I guess it would be that we all are a little broken, and that's okay! Allow yourself to go ahead and feel whatever it is that you are feeling. Embrace it. Accept it. Even wallow in it briefly, if you must. But, don't push away the people, the support, and the resources that are out there and available to you. And I hope you will allow me to be one of them!

If you've read all the way to the end of this blog entry, then I want to genuinely thank you, SO, SO MUCH, for allowing me to lay all of my realness out there -- and for your continued support.

Peaceandlove.